


Poisoned Virtue

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Blood and Gore, Child Abuse, Consensual Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirk Strider and Dave's Bro Aren't the Same Person, Doomed Timelines, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, Grooming, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Incest, M/M, Manipulation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, a LOT of cultism, cultism, ritualistic behaviors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-14 20:53:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16920198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's not that Bro's a bad guy (but he is), it's just that you haven't been trying hard enough to save him (because you can't).





	Poisoned Virtue

TG: god today sucks ass

TT: What happened this time, Captian Dave?

TG: i can literally smell the sass fuming off that sentence

TG: youre literally such an ass and idk why i ever put up with you but here we are

TG: swimming in the shitter like its some sort of holiday

TG: like this is what normal people do

TG: sink or survive bitch

TG: swim with the fishies or nose dive down into the sewers to live the alligator life of your fucking dreams

TG: cause you wanna be a cowboy baby

TT: I wanna be a cowboy, baebie.

TG: damn fucking straight man damn fucking straight

TT: Or gay, too. You know, respect all men. All cowboys, yo.

TG: fuck respect all cowgirls too man you cant be a sexist bastard this is 2018 bitch

TT: Shit. You’re right. I’ll go ask the cow-women for forgiveness, my heinous act shalt not go unpaid for.

TG: haha

TG: yeah man fuck religion

TT: Isn’t Bro superbly religious?

TG: i guess

TG: its not really a religion though

TG: its just some weird thing he follows that popped into his head when i was like six and he hasnt got it out

TT: Does he still make you wear that robe get-up?

TG: every fuckin tuesday

TT: Why Tuesday?

TG: idfk ask him

TG: i mean dont im not even supposed to chat about this shit but id be shocked if he didnt know i blab to you about it all the time anyway

TT: I see.

TG: youre doing that thing again

TT: What thing?

TG: where youre worrying about me so hard i can feel it from all these miles away

TG: its ok you know

TG: im not mad that you went to live with rose n roxy

TT: …

TG: things are a lot worse now here i think bros coming apart at the seams

TG: someone has to help him yknow

TT: Why does it have to be you?

TG: because

TG: i think im the only person who gives a shit about this ugly man

TG: shit speak of the devil he just popped up

TT: Alright. Chat with you later.

Dirk is an understanding guy, for that you’re thankful. (Fuck, you’re over the stupid moon like that cow in those stupid nursery rhymes. Moo, bitch.) He doesn’t bug you, once you mention Bro being around, ‘cause he knows you gotta be on your toes. He was raised with the guy, too, until he left you both.

Said man is idly standing in the hall, the edge of your vision. He’ll come over soon enough, you’re sure. Til then, guard up.

You’re pretty vocal about how Bro’s a douche, just like always. Sure, you outwardly admit Bro’s getting worse, ‘cause Dirk can always fucking tell when you’re lying, but you don’t explain how bad he’s gotten. And, oh boy, he’s gotten really fucking bad. Like. Really fucking disgustingly, gut-crushingly, eye-scooping-outingly, horrifically, **terrible**.

All because of some stupid dreams.

You get them too, sure, and _maybe_ it was a bad idea to tell him, sure, but you did and you regret it. Six-years-old, broken and sad ‘cause your brother left you with Bro all alone.

You went crying to that man because you dreamed you had wings, a sword through your gut that didn’t kill you, and everything was orange. You sobbed your silly little eyes out, he let you lay down with him, muttered he saw it too, so soft into your hair you almost missed it.

Bro Strider is a broken, shell of a man with nothing but silence and pain to offer you. Stupidly, you think you can help him. Fix him.

Somewhere in your gut, you know you’re just punishing yourself. Trying to seek praise by fixing someone else. Pretend you’re not hoping he’ll fix you. Make believe he’s not the one breaking you…  


He does weird shit.

He read through the bible, you guess because of the dreams, but didn’t seem interested in it aside from a few parts. (He compares your dream orange feathery self to an angel, constantly.) Other than that, you think he’s winging all of this. (Pun not intended.)

The dressing you up in silk white robes, bland and simple but so soft you almost enjoy wearing it. Then he gathers you up, tosses you in the water he somehow got so cold that when he drops you into it you can’t breathe. Once you do breathe, it doesn’t seem to work. Yet your body keeps making you.

The silk robes don’t do shit to keep you warm, and he keeps you in that bath for an hour at a time. You used to plead with him not to, but he’d hold your head under back then, to the point you had water up your nose and filling your mouth. Now, you comply wordlessly. Shudder and eventually get so cold you don’t even shiver.

He never makes you put your head completely under, anymore, you just have to lean back enough to wet your hair. That’s enough to urge you to continue following his orders like an obedient puppy. Sometimes you ask him why, sometimes he humors you with a one-worded answer, “Important.”

You asked him if it got his rocks off, once, only to get shoved under the water until the edges of your vision turned black.

So, most would assume it’s sinfulness he’s trying to wash away, but you don’t think that can really be it. You’re pretty sure it’s not. If you can read Bro at all, which you somewhat can but nowhere near as well as Dirk can, you think this part is bullshit.

This part is training. He’s training you how to handle shock because you’re pretty sure that’s what your body goes through every single time. The baths are just to keep you strong. Nothing about them is ritualistic, and you’re hopeful that it’s entirely irony.

You think he’s playing the religious man role just to get a laugh. To have a fail-safe explanation, fuck knows you ask too many questions. Religion is an easy out, shuts you up pretty quick ‘cause you’re just not into it.

At the same time, it feels more like cultism. That doesn’t seem entirely out of reach. He tells you, softly, as he gets you out of the robe that’s gone transparent and sticks to your skin, “Gotta ascend, Lil Man.”

You never question him after your ice baths of doom, though (once a week, every Tuesday, four AM sharp). You’re too cold and exhausted to fucking function. Instead, you give little nods and let him bundle you up in warm clothes, three layers of socks ‘cause by then your toenails are blue and rubs the chill out of your back.

He doesn’t let you take a warm bath or shower to heat up, oh no, that’s cheating.

Your scrawny limbs shake, just thinking about how cold it is. How miserable the hour is. How he doesn’t even let you lay still for it. He makes you move around, re-expose warming skin to the touch of ice so that your entire body is wracked with numbness and pain.

Tuesday is tomorrow. You’ve been dreading it. You _always_ do.

Dirk knows you do, but he doesn’t know what happens. You told him Bro makes you stand on the roof like you’re T-posing. It’s comical enough he believed you, or maybe he was scared of the truth, so he let you lie.

Dirk is always eerily aware that Bro’s doing shit he shouldn’t be. On days you get it really bad in a strife, Dirk somehow knows to be extra gentle with you. Extra soft and caring. A proper fucking gentleman and you have no idea how he’s related to Bro.

Except, you do, because the similarities between them are as striking as the differences. Dirk is, simply, Bro but younger. They are at the core, the same. It’s when you fray out into details that you understand they are very different people.

A good example is that if Dirk knew what was happening, in full detail, in truth, he’d die to protect you from it. Bro, on the other hand, forces you into it. Is the reason you’re like this.

Bro is still silently watching you, perched on the coffee table now, as you roll your fingers against your phone screen. Read back on your convo with Dirk.

“Dave,” You don’t ignore him but keep it casual by just offering a nod to show you’re listening.

Someone should really give you a medal, cause this is comedy gold, these chats belong in a museum. You’re one funny dude.

Bro lets you have these moments where your brain wonders. He never really mentions it. He’ll sit there and wait for you to finally start blabbing, or if it’s needed, he’ll say your name. It’s a routine, a familiar situation, but his next words make your stomach sink. Just like always.

“Roof.” He’s gone before the frown has time to tug at your features.

You toss your phone to the side, shove one hand into your pocket before grabbing at where you left your sword, but… Not there.

 _Not there_ . (Not fucking there. Where the fuck is your sword. He can’t be serious, he’s so not doing this, is he? Oh, fuck, he is. _He is._ ) He’s making you go in unarmed. If you grab one of his swords, he’ll make it worse on you. Break it instantly. Fuck yourself. Fuck you.

You look to where he was sitting, seconds ago, crouched like some kinna monster man in a movie. His posture is shit when he’s not strifing. You wonder if his back hurts as you shove yourself off the futon. Away from the game you were playing. Away from your phone, your life-line to Dirk.

Inching to the door feels like trying to get through thigh-deep mud. Or maybe even half hardened cement at an equal depth. Maybe both. Yeah, both works. You like both.

The doorknob feels cold in your hand, akin to your fate tomorrow. He’s never roughed you up before Tuesday, not prior to this. Either he’s changing the routine, or this is a bluff.

The idea of it being a bluff does little to comfort you. You’re shaking like a leaf by the time you quietly go up the stairs. Pad your feet lightly against the steps, moving as silently as you can. Deep breath.

Exit to the roof.

That. DICK. You see your sword, in _his hand_ , betraying you by using your own fucking weapon. Not his. No. He’s using your’s. What kind of asshole does that? You can’t just use a guy’s sword against him. You decide to say this to him.

“Bro. What the fuck? You can’t use a man's own weapon of choice to fuck him over. Gimme yours, dickwad.” You hiss, the usual banter you two normally go ham on.

“You lost privileges.” He says, straightens out his posture in the most horrifying way. He’s too tall, his back cracks the whole way up. Your teeth are clattering. He’s mad.

Bro’s not awkward and lanky like Dirk, he’s fit and as intimidatingly buff. Like a fucking bull. You feel like you’re the china shop. Like he’s about to trot in and fuck you up. Break everything delicate. Which is everything. Because you’re a little teapot. Short and… Something. Here is your fucking handle and here is your spout. Which he’s gonna obliterate in one go.

“Why?” You blurt, not even thinking. His facial expression doesn’t waver and it makes your gut do more flips than your heart ever did, even when running up all the stairs when you were a kid, trying to make it to the bathroom.

“Yer chittering like a gossipy little bitch.” His words make you go cold. He _does_ know. He does know about how you talk to Dirk. Even Rose. Sometimes Roxy, rarely Hal.

Before you can do anything, he corners you. Flash steps so quick you don’t notice him move, or when he pushes you against the AC unit, not until a sword is flush against your jugular and the sun is suddenly off your back.

You don’t dare even swallow.

“Shit ain’t cool, kid.” The way he calls you ‘kid’ is almost endearing, but your brain is a little too focused on the sword against your fucking neck and the venom dripping from those monotoned words.

Nothing about it is endearing, it’s all bark with the promise of bite. ‘Cause Bro Strider’s bite is far, far worse than his bark.

“Br-” You can’t even speak without your voice trembling, he picks up on it quick. Sword connects to an old scar. Ugly, seared across your throat forever. It’s a warning. It’s a silent, horrifying, warning. It makes your heart jump in your chest, veins pool with fear. He could have killed you way back when, he purposefully didn’t, but he still can. He’s reminding you of that fact.

You shake harder than before.

“Ain’t cool.” He repeats, like always. His voice is fucking robotic and you wanna tease Hal that he sounds the same. The difference, though, is even that asshole Hal would never hurt you. Never actually wound you. Hal is harmless, really, if you don’t let him talk you into doing something stupid.

Bro will. _Bro has_. He never hesitates. Worst of all, he knows what gets to you the most. It’s that nasty scar on your neck. Your biggest weakness. He’ll show up behind you, suddenly have a hand around your throat and just trace his fingers against it before vanishing. He does that every single time you almost slip up and let Rose snoop enough to figure him out.

Figure you out.  ~~Save you.~~

But you just can’t let that happen, either. It's not that Bro's a bad guy (but he is), it's just that you haven't been trying hard enough to save him (because you can't).

You try and fail to swallow without bumping against the blade, luckily it doesn’t cut skin. He blessed you with enough space to swallow down the bile rising in your throat.

"I'm sorry," You finally croak, palms sweaty, knees weak-- No. Nows not the time, and you’re too nervous to remember if that’s even how it fucking goes.

“I’m sorry, I try not to let them know too much, but they can tell when I’m not being honest.” You say, soft as kitten fur. “They’re just worried. Haven’t seen me in a while… Maybe we should, maybe, like… visit?” You pause.

The seconds that pass, each you count carefully in the back of your brain, feel like they pass so slow. Slower than your movement to the door, earlier. Like sludge is dripping in the gears of The Clock, slowing down time. Leaving you with a bone jittering fear of what’s to come.

When the sword drops away from you, Bro doesn’t even flinch as you nearly vomit from your anxiousness being relieved too suddenly. You swallow it down, like the disgusting thing you are.

“Maybe.” He drawls, tilts his head to the side. It’s not so much like a puppy, more like a deadly lion considering if he should gut you, or keep you alive and make you watch him gut your family, instead.

“Maybe.” You parrot, ‘cause it’s all you fucking know how to do anymore.

“After Tuesday.” Fuck. Of course, you’re not getting out of it. He knows you too well, knows you’ll try to fox your way out of it. No sir, Dave Strider, you’re not allowed to run away. You’re getting in that tub tomorrow, and no one gives a shit that you don’t enjoy it. Not in this house.

“Okay.” Is all you say on an exhale, like some idiot, only able to agree. It’s routine. He’s a stickler for those little details. Gives you exactly a week to forget how it feels to suffer, then plummets you back into it to start all over.

Your coping methods always change. You used to talk your way through it, but eventually realized that didn’t work. You tried breathing through it, but that just lead you to hyperventilate and almost pass out.

Your current method is getting Bro to dip his hand in enough to hold onto your’s, to bite back the sing of tears in your eyes.

If you stay quiet, do exactly as he says, he lets you hold his hand. Only if you comply. So, you do, ‘cause you don’t know how long he’ll let you do this. How long he’ll let you get away with it.

He let you sleep with him until thirteen, so it’s not like he’s in any rush to toss you out of his nest. You’re a few days past eighteen, now, and you haven’t been thrown to the Gods.

You wonder when this armageddon is coming, cause he worked you real hard up until thirteen. Although, things are worse now, nothings been changing. You’ve settled into a routine. Before it was all chaos, all keeping you on your toes, now it’s endurance. You think.

How long does he want you to endure?

You really don’t know what goes through that man’s head, ever, and you’re kind of scared to find out exactly what does. When you sink down to your knees on the roof, alone yet again, you can’t really help the sobs that bubble in your chest. You shove them down, don’t let them surface. Just like Bro taught you. The perfect little student you are.

 

After a while, you tiptoe back into the apartment. By now, the suns gone down. Tomorrow fast fucking approaches. Scary shit, it is. You grab your phone, open up a chat with Dirk.

TG: dude we need to talk

TG: not in like the scary way but like i have good news

TG: really really good news

TG: like piss yourself in excitement good news

TG: dirk

TG: dude???

TG: hellooooo you there????

TG: oh its shower time isnt it

TT: Indeed.

TG: haha hey hal

TT: Hello, Dave.


End file.
